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This is the official blog of Northern Arizona slam poet Christopher Fox Graham. Begun in 2002, and transferred to blogspot in 2006, FoxTheBlog has recorded more than 670,000 hits since 2009. This blog cover's Graham's poetry, the Arizona poetry slam community and offers tips for slam poets from sources around the Internet. Read CFG's full biography here. Looking for just that one poem? You know the one ... click here to find it.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

Slam Tutorial, Part V, An Intense Personal Poem

Round Two: An Intense Personal Poem

An intense personal poem often makes a good piece to read in the second round a three-round slam. Be wary if every other poet is doing the same. Your poem must stand out and relate to the audience. If it's too wrapped up in your nuances, personality or private jargon, your audience won't care. If you met someone in college who lead you into drugs and self abuse, hence the reason you lost a finger in a car accident then ran from the police, no one cares what your major was. Your goal is to make your audience realistically believe that they are you for a few minutes. Thus, the poem must relate to the them, being specific enough to be you, yet just generic enough to give them the sense of "oh, I've been there, too."

She Only Loves Me When the Bars CloseFor Ashley Wintermute

she only loves me when the bars closeand no one else is willing to take her homespilling drama Ibsen would envyabout this girl or that boywho said or did somethingwe must deal with right awayeven though the guilty partiesaren't around to argue the contrary

she comes in the back dooras my roommates sleep oblivious to the impending Armageddonsoon to destroy us allfights past all my contradictionsto slip into my satin sheetsand call me to bedno matter whatever late-night duties require my attentionI just want to sleepwithout a stranger's tongue in my mouthdrift off to sleep alone and contented in my lonelinesswithout her arms wrapping envious tendrils around medesperate for my attentions, tongue or cockto remind her she's human and wanted

I've lived my days without a womanto make me feel like a manjust give me a soft pillowand dreams of past loversor memories of travelsor fictional visions of potential futuresand I drift into dreamlandwith a smile until dawnbut she calls me to bedto wrap myself around herhold her like all the lovers she's left behindI am not themI am more than a bodywith a hungry organ seeking a cathedralto play my music inwhile the seats sit empty of religious devoteesI don't need the fictionsthat tonight is the night two twin souls find each otherone drunk on whiskeythe other loaded up with ginmaking long island iced tea loveripe with thick cigarette smoke on our breathto stink the air beneath the sheets

she slips off her clothesthrows her panties to flooras if the only key I needed to her moistnesswas the lack of a cotton barrier

my hips learned the motionsthe thrust and throb of hipsfrom wise women who could have taughta hundred thousand menthe way to love properlyI have been a student of masterswho still make my head spinyears after they taught me how to play

one who showed me how a tongue can speak verseby the way it flicks and glides across a clitas if poetry was not the sound of wordsbut their movement in spaceanother who wanted to fuck everywhere but the bedfinding the best place of allwas an overloaded dryerbouncing off-balancewhile the buzzer went off every 15 minutes for hoursanother who taught me the way to find perfect rhythmis to pretend you're a jazz trioaccompanying a polka bandwhile the titanic sinks

loving a woman with hips and skinstakes intention and concentrationbut their arts are wasted when you are, too

she calls for lipspops a pill to ease herselfpulls close my musclesand wants the better parts of meto fill herbut when the competition is eighty proofI see no reason to trespass on her intoxicationI want to love herbut her stories change too fast to trust

she stretches her limbsrubs below my beltto awaken what she thinks she wantsand opens her anime eyes to my otaku desiresbut I've seen the way this endsand no one in Neo-Tokyo lives to tell the taleI am more than her cartoon perfect playmateI've seen her pull the football out from her Charlie Brownsonly she's left unsatisfied and obliviouswhile they go off to findlittle red-haired girls to love

she treats her pussy like a daytrip destinationinstead of somewhere one wants to livepay a mortgage,build a white-picket fenceand eventually retirewe've all gotten postcardsfrom those who've been there beforeand the mystery has become a cheap tourist trapwe only visit for the noveltyof saying we've been there, done that

she spreads her legsto spill honeybut she's only catching fliesso I zip mine upand sleep on the couchby myself at least I'm with someone who loves mefor what I dream ofnot what I dangle between my lonely thighs

she only loves me when the bars closeonly calls after 2 a.m.and I can tell her time zoneby checking the clockeach message begins with slursabout missing me with extra "s"sand how much she hates me for not calling back by threebut how much she loves me, but hates me, but loves mewhatever my name is tonight

she curses my loverspoints at their photos and says they'll never love me againbut that's not why I keep themthey loved me onceand that's all I have in the endshe hates my wall-hanging loversbecause she hasn't been one of them

she doesn't rememberthe night I let go of these rulesslipped part of me into herand watched her writhe with joyas her hips shook uncontrollably over and over and overshe asked me the next morning if we fuckedthey way you'd ask someoneif they'd read a news storyor seen a movieor cleaned the rain gutters last yearif she can't rememberwhy remind her

I've fucked for funand for curiositybut not to be forgottenI don't need any more stamps in my passportand I've visited countries like hers before

she only loves me when the bars closebut I don't serve what she's drinkingI only save her a barstoolpour water and soda until she's so drunk on her own vintagethat she doesn't know what time it isdrifts off to sleep in my armsonly then is she finally honest enoughfor me to trust heronly unconscious, still and silentdo I believe what she has to sayonly thenwhen she can't contradict me a thousand waysI whisper what she wants to hear

3 comments:

dude, your style is very quite good. Again...their are just the right amount of key words to keep the mood going through all the regular fluff to keep it the lines smooth (i mean the 'is' 'the' 'it' etc...the cheap stuff) -- guna have to fav ya now :D

I think the graphic content worked very well in this poem. It never once felt overdone or vulgar, and served well to describe the predicament of the relationship between the speaker and the subject. There's a resigned sadness to her desperation and loneliness that you expressed very well throughout the poem, and the explicit focus on their sexual connection also conveyed the shallow, empty nature of their relationship. Great job!

CFG the slam poet

Fox the Poet

Christopher Fox Grahamis a Montana-born boy raised in Arizona to be a poet, artist, and singer with unending wanderlust. He's fascinated with art and other shiny things, a good story will keep him captivated and silent as he soaks you in.

In truth, he is good at only three things: using language, kissing, and driving.

He has performed for MTV and on The Travel Channel's "Your Travel Guide" episode of Sedona. Aside from winning more than 100 poetry slams, he's published four books of poetry, most recently The Opposite of Camouflage, and won the 2012 Dylan Thomas Award for Excellence in the Written and Spoken Word.

A slam poet since 2001, he currently hosts the bimonthly Sedona Poetry Slam in West Sedona.

For nearly four years, he was the senior Copy Editor of the Sedona Red Rock News, and an arts reporter and a columnist. He wrote a weekly column "Sedona Underground," about the city's art scene. After leaving in May 2008, he was asked to return as Assistant Managing Editor in October 2009. He was promoted to News Editor in April 2012 and in August 2012 was promoted to Managing Editor, overseeing the Sedona Red Rock News,The Camp Verde Journal, Cottonwood Journal Extra, The Scene and The Village View.

He has won numerous personal and editorial newsroom awards from the Arizona Newspapers Association, including three awards for Best Headline.

He was the managing editor of Kudos, a weekly arts and entertainment publication of the Verde Independent. He was also managing editor of The Villager, a weekly news publication in the Village of Oak Creek.

He is one the six coordinators of GumptionFest a kickass, annual, one-day grassroots arts festival held in Sedona, this year in September. More than 100 artists and bands exhibit their work for free to more than 1,200 people.

In 2005, he founded the Sedona Poetry Open Mic, which he hosted biweekly at Java Love Cafe on second and fourth Tuesdays until 2012. A former venue included Random Acts of Coffee, in Sedona, which closed in June 2005. The venue named a drink after him which one can order an various coffeehouses in Sedona. The "Topher": A large soy chai with two (or three) shots of espresso. Serve iced or hot. He was member of the city of Sedona Child and Youth Commission for two years and chairman for another two years before the commission was dissolved in 2008.

He has been unofficially named "The Voice of the Underground," in Sedona for his column "Sedona Underground" that appeared every Friday in The Scene. for more than three years, featuring more than 150 artists.

He won the 2004 NORAZ Poets Grand Slam, the 2005 Arizona All-Star Poetry Slam, and was a member of the 2001, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2010, 2012 and 2013 Flagstaff National Poetry Slam Teams. He was also a National Poetry Slam bout manager in 2003, venue manager in 2011, and Sedona Slammaster in 2012, 2013 and 2014, sponsoring the city's first three Sedona National Poetry Slam Teams.

He believes that all slam poets are Jedis.

He has been thrown out of six movie theaters, 18 bars, a Las Vegas nightclub with his girlfriend, a public pool, two malls, four golf courses, one bowling alley, five dorms, one airport, one pet store, a now-defunct nonprofit poetry organization ... and Canada. Seriously.